Surely I heard him wrong.
“I think I’ll take the boys camping over your birthday weekend,” my husband had said, “and give you some time to yourself.”
As a freelance writer with two young sons and eight employers at any given instant, my “me-time” is confined to the shower and the car, driving to fetch someone from somewhere — not time for myself, just time by myself.
So his offer sounded absurd. I ran it through my trusty guilt check: I didn’t ask, he offered. They love camping, I hate it. It is my birthday.
I’m shocked by the lump in my throat as my family drives away. Is it instinctive grief over losing control of my flock? Or (gulp) a fear that I won’t know what to do with myself when they’re gone?